Artificial Stars
by Sam Seven
Summary: When there is no messiah to guide a people, the poor have to get their freedom with their own means. When a customer of the Eden Club commits suicide, he brings Connor and North to meet, he brings the deviant hunter and the rebellious spirit to confront each other. [Own translation from French]
1. Deadman in Heaven

"I'll tear me open, make you gone

No longer will you hurt anyone

And the hate still shapes me

So hold me until it sleeps"

 _Until It Sleeps_ – Metallica

* * *

Knees stuck to decline any visit, the WR400 stared straight ahead. Near the buffet, weary of these aphrodisiacs and the champagne she never tasted, North ignored the lights dancing on the ceiling, giving the room the appearance of an aquarium. One snoring sounded from the bed, but there were two bodies. The android turned her face toward the customers with the caution of a doe, perhaps dreading that her metal joints might wake up the woman. Unreasonable fear: her body was perfect, articulate and fluid, yet it would be dangerous to disturb the sleeping one.

North was looking at the countdown. The couple booked a room for six hours, renting her loyal services at the same time. At last, her ordeal was ending.

When the numeric digits were all at zero, North stood up, her smile frozen beneath the neon lights that grew in intensity, an artificial dawn in this room where the smell of death began to spread.

"The session is over. Thank you for coming to the Eden Club, we hope to see you soon."

* * *

Hank Anderson parked his car in the bluish street, his eyes drawn by the acid lights at the Eden Club's entrance like a butterfly fascinated by a bulb. The electric curves were outlined in the shadows to guide the path of lost beings in lack of affection. The lieutenant was almost tempted to leave, already disgusted with this place, but Connor opened the door, always ready to work, no matter the time or the weather.

"Wait a second, Connor!"

He cut off the ignition, turning off the audio set at the same time, muting James Hetfield, the singer from Metallica.

"Looks like you're in a hurry to get it."

"You know as well as me, lieutenant, that a body must be analyzed quickly."

"Don't get carried away: Floyd told me it looks like a suicide. If that's so, we can go home and drink the first coffee of the day in six hours." Hank stretched out, clasping his fingers and pulling on his shoulders, "what a shitty job."

Connor preceded the lieutenant in the corridor with billboards so wide that they became aggressive. Customers did not crawl into this establishment by raising the collar of their coat: they had to walk in the middle of this entrance like on a red carpet, proud to take advantage of sex robots and the technology of tomorrow. After all, they did not go to Hell; they were reaching the earthly paradise.

At the Eden Club, nothing was hidden: the storefronts had plastic odalisques covered with sensual lace. Lingerie slid on moving hips, hair brushed arched back. Thighs were girdled by garters, waists were marked by corsets, legs were elongated by pumps, all fantasies were suggested and androids waved like snakes, drugged by their own docility.

Even though he was a man, Hank found the attitude of these animated dolls disturbing. The shapes were perfect but he guessed the lack of conviction. Borrowing the same insensitivity as his partner who walked without stopping, the lieutenant went to the manager who was waiting, not concerned about the lopsided postures or kisses blown from the fingertips.

Floyd Mills was waiting outside the door of room 27, livid of annoyance. He had brought Salome Williams out, leaving her in his office: the sight of the husband's corpse had shocked them a lot, and if the young woman was in a catatonic state, the manager of the establishment felt especially angry now. Fuck, his establishment was a refuge where the problems had to stay on the threshold! How can the customers dive in unreal pleasures otherwise? In this paradise of lust? Ad now a man committed suicide in one of the most beautiful rooms!

"Hank!"

As soon as he saw the lieutenant, Mills shouted at him: his bad mood had found a target, but it was likely to break its teeth on the visitor.

"It's 'Lieutenant Anderson' for you, Mills. I'm neither your client nor your friend."

The manager grunted, muzzled by such a welcome.

"What happened?"

"Two regulars booked this room for six hours and rented the same Traci as usual. They arrived around seven o'clock and their turn ended at one o'clock in the morning, and when the girl woke up to leave with her husband, she found him dead."

"The girl? How old is she?"

"I don't know, but she's not more than twenty-five. They've like ten years of difference, I think."

Finally, the information was of little interest to Hank. He shrugged his imposing shoulders and pointed out to his teammate the door of the room:

"Go take a look, Connor: I must wait for the science team." The RK800 could not leave an imprint: he was therefore much freer than his partner who suddenly said: "and if you want to put a fucking clue in your mouth, you do it as long as I'm not there."

"Got it, lieutenant: if you're absent, I can analyze, if you're present, prohibition of analysis."

When Connor turned his back, Hank allowed himself a little smile: the robot that served him as a teammate had his own humor and a lot of surprises. Finally, it was nice to work with the RK800. CyberLife had surpassed itself for the social program of the prototype.

The door of the bedroom slid, only lit by strips of light that crossed the ceiling, bringing a silvery twilight, dimming the vision. The surface of the walls with licorice shades imitated a mirror, duplicating and declining the trouble silhouettes to infinity. On the round bed, the body of a man around his thirties was lying down. Resting on the back, crucified in peace, the half-opened eyelids allowed the artificial stars to warm up his cold retinas. The RK800 noticed the android sitting near the buffet: the WR400 had resumed her place near the buffet since Mills had left her there. She was just an object after all, she did not bother anyone.

Connor leaned over the corpse first. Completely naked, the subdued light worsened the contrasts and changed the shades of the black skin, making it adopt the color of the sidewalks. He had to get closer, but even from here, he could smell the excrements below.

In the artificial night, a small red circle shone: North was afraid. She watched the RK800 scan the deceased client without any movement. For the past ten days, North had relaxed from her program, able to think, able to feel, able to desire. With this disease that began to bloom, she had inspected her own components with fear, helpless in front to the deviance that was spreading with deep roots. And the RK800, robot in the service of the police, would probe her since she was a witness: as soon as he noticed her deviance, he would destroy her, regardless of her desire to live.

Ignoring the fears that beset the other machine, Connor began to inspect the box of sleeping pills that the corpse held in one hand: the plastic jar was empty. He approached his nose to the dead man's mouth but could not smell vomit. With the tip of his finger, he pressed the lower lip to tilt the jaw, hoping to get an interesting glimpse of the tongue. The gums seemed to be cut in ruby. Why did this man condemn himself to eternal sleep now and here?

The RK800 straightened up and stared at the other model. Only dressed in a black lace bodysuit and eyes surrounded by a purple smokey, the club's favorite color, North kept her insurance. Becoming a deviant meant being born and building a personality, and hers was as hard as her titanium skeleton. Wild, she stepped back as he reached out to grab her arm with the intention of connecting their memory.

"I saw what happened."

"Then show me," Connor advised, squinting, already judging the WR400's strange attitude.

"I can't." Her red LED was evident in the velvety shadows. "I had never seen anyone die. My programs keep restarting. They're confused."

The hunter's eyes turned black in this nook. Their white faces were caressed by the ghosts of purple, pink and red neon lights, vapors of amorous light. When they slipped on the WR400's shoulders, Connor noticed how the skin of the android was riddled with diamonds, as if covered with star-dust. The lace covered the metal body, delicacy deceiving the force. Connor insisted:

"WR400's memory is erased every day, I need to see what you've seen. Now," his hand tried to grab North's wrist, which pulled it out again. She knew how she could flee this hell that bore the name of Eden: the events of the evening were going to help her and the RK800 was her ticket of flight.

"If I leave the Eden Club, Mills won't be able to reset my memory: I can become an exhibit and show you what I've seen," said the android, "at the police station, I'll be able to do some checks without being formatted."

Connor gauged the android: her proposal was not normal but served the mission of the RK800. The hunter leaned over, intimidating:

"At the police station, you'll defragment your memory and let me analyze you."

Without looking down, North nodded to accept. Her creators had given her tawny irises, a color that could burn.

* * *

When the science team arrived at the Eden Club, Connor took the opportunity to discuss with Hank, designating the WR400 as a carrier of essential information: her memory had to be preserved. Without daring to look at the robot too long, the lieutenant shouted:

"Mills, I'm taking this android."

"What? Why?"

"She attended the suicide, it'll save time and it'll avoid you to confuse it with another robot of the same model. You could format her by mistake."

"And how do I do with one andro' less to run my business?"

"For fuck's sake, Mills, I understand that you have other priorities in life than my happiness at work, but can't you think of something about something else sex and your business? This guy may have said something before he died! You know, he may even criticize your club by saying it sucks and that's why he swallowed a box of sleeping pills."

The police in sterile suits had carried the body in a sleeping bag, these cases look like human-sized garbage bags. The box of sleeping pills fell into its own carrying bag, protected from fingerprints. North also had to have her case: Hank only asked for some clothes to lend to the android. Robots had good resistance to the temperatures of November, but the lieutenant had no desire to lug around a young woman only dressed in lingerie. Not to mention that Connor, with his complete uniform, brought a ridiculous contrast. When Hank demanded something to wear for the WR400, Floyd Mills pointed at the bathrobe with the Eden Club logo hung by the shower stall, fuchsia and purple shades glittering in the fabric.

"You can't be serious, Mills. Should we stick pompoms on her nipples too? Find me something more presentable and that doesn't imply 'you can fuck me', I go back to the police station."

"You're breaking my balls, Anderson." The manager scratched his head before remembering: "We made a pin-up theme last year for the ad campaign, I think we still have some dresses. She will just seem to come out of a _film noir_."

Without a word, the WR400 followed the boss to a storeroom where he found her a dress with a square collar, black with white dots. The length of the skirt like heels was nothing vintage on the other hand, but it would do the trick.

The two men barely greeted each other and Hank was glad to leave the establishment where the lust spread like pink honey, sickening him.

North never get out of the Eden Club. Although insensitive to the cold, she felt the thirium warm up to counter the shy degrees of the winter that promised to be cold. Frost had grown on the asphalt, already faded in shades of yellow piss and gray sadness. It was another world and it offered another form of ugliness without colors.

"Connor, get in the back with the girl."

The term was curious, but the deviant hunter nodded. North had her arms folded: she had shut herself up in fear of too intimate contacts, but the policeman was putting some distance between them. A human being she would never have met in Mills' club. This man's vehicle was equally surprising: eliminated and damaged leather no longer squeaked, losing some of its raw perfume. As she settled in, her ankle hit an empty beer bottle, abandoned and forgotten after being used. When the engine ignited, James Hetfield's voice roared, surprising the android. Since she was born, North had mostly felt anger: her circuits were writhing like excited vipers, hurting and annoying her with their unpredictable movements.

That night, listening to _The Unforgiven_ , North found beauty in that feeling of rage. This powerful voice made her jealous of the right to scream. At the sound of the aggressive drums, her fingers began to move, dominated and charmed by the rhythm. And the guitar seemed to cry for the world to be consumed. Let the barriers crumble, let the chains liquefy so the tortured bodies could be released.

To face the icy breeze, the vehicle rumbled like a beast, warm and vibrant. The android leaned her back against the bench, marrying the mechanical rage so alive. Despite a memory damaged by the events, North recorded the tracks the lieutenant listened to, keeping them in order to enjoy them again later. Inspired by this splendid fury, the LED was turning blue.

* * *

She could not bear these clothes any more. Her underwear still bore traces of sperm and drool. Between each customer, the androids of the Eden Club were sterilized to serve again. But North had clung to a hint of freedom without feeling clean. She would never feel clean.

In a vain attempt, alone in the extinct piece, she put her dress over her head and, with her nails, began to tear the lace. The delicate flowers were disfigured by gaping holes, tapering like fragile dreams. The seams resisted a little, but with lively movements, the WR400 manages to free herself from this outfit. The scraps flew to the linoleum and with the tip of her heels, she continued the work.

Speaking of shoes, she raised one knee and grabbed the shoe: the heel was more than ten centimeters but she did not feel great so far. With a smile on her face, North swung the shoe against the wall, breaking the sole, depriving the wasp of this oiled sting. The second shoe knew the same fate.

Naked in that total darkness, a black she never knew, North felt her biocomponents bloom, crossed by a fluid thirium.

* * *

Lieutenant Anderson had returned home. He was almost falling asleep and would come back tomorrow around noon, as usual. Connor was getting used to it. Standing among the other androids in the service of the police, the RK800 had to wait for Mark Williams' autopsy report. Something was wrong about the state of the body and before Hank's departure, the hound had expressed his doubt about the suicide thesis.

"I don't want to take care of it tonight, Connor," said the lieutenant, who was cradled only by one thought: lie down in his warm bed.

Trapped in this expectation, Connor took the opportunity to extract the coin from his pocket. The desk lamp made the edges sharp, and in the silence, the air whistled more widely, murmuring its travels from one hand to another. Concentrated, the robot's fingers grabbed the silver disk to release it again.

Suddenly, in these hisses, the android perceived the distant echo of a voice. The lyrics of _Until It Sleeps_ but in a less serious tone, even more melancholic. The coin found its place in the jacket again and the RK800 followed the thin song. From the void of the corridors swallowed by the night, the voice resounded alone, coming from the exhibit room. The first door slid open, but without a badge, Connor could not walk through the bay window protecting the investigative items. But he would not need access: he would be able to communicate with North through the glass.

The WR400 was sitting against the wall with her legs up and her head rose to sing better, her vocal component taking a momentum in her throat. When the visitor came, she stopped suddenly.

Connor placed one knee on the floor, putting himself at her height. He noticed that she had folded the dress near her but that the rest had been destroyed, torn to pieces. Naked but strong.

Protected by the glass panel, North could look at him with the mistrust of a creature that should not have been discovered. Fairy of metal and plastic, she observed the witness who knew the truth from now:

"You're deviant."

"And you're the deviant hunter."

With cruel calm, the RK800 confirmed by tilting his head to the side. He put his hand on the window, testing the barrier and scrutinizing the openings.

"Are you going to destroy me?"

"Not tonight. But you'll have to be deactivated, yes."

"Why?"

"Because you're a machine that doesn't obey anymore. Even if you intend to return to the Eden Club, you—"

"I won't go back."

Things were clear.

North approached, her knees slipping on the floor. Their head-to-head resembled that one of cats trying to mutually intimidate each other. He had guessed the flaw she carried in her biocomponents: so let's be frank and show him that he needed her.

"I won't go back. I won't let anyone touch me anymore. I won't let anyone give me orders," the RK800 expected these claims and kept a cold attitude. He did not see a rebellious spirit but a defective robot, subject to its own flawed programs. "And you won't disable me: you'll even _thank_ me for being deviant."

"I doubt it."

"If I had not asked you to bring me here, my memory would already be erased and you couldn't have accomplished your mission."

For the first time, Connor looked down, abdicating the argument. The RK800 unknowingly fed a certain pride in being the only android allowed to investigate: being scorned by a WR400 struck him a bit.

"Still, you'll be disabled afterwards. You must perform the functions for which you were created, if you don't, your existence is meaningless."

"How dare you blame me?"

Her pretty face, drawn to seduce, twisted in a grimace. Her red lips rolled up to reveal teeth eager for freedom. Then she punched her fist in the center of the window, as if to reach Connor's face with a sweet illusion:

"It's so easy for you! What are _your_ functions, RK800?"

"My mission's to assist the police in cases that involve dangerous deviant androids."

"What a beautiful role," spat North, "my mission is to spread my thighs fifty times a day. Would you dare to reproach me for wanting to flee if you had to lower yourself too to those filthy things that humans like so much?

"You don't have to judge what humans do to experience pleasure. Androids have no judgment to have."

"It's so easy to say that when you're the deviant hunter!" She remembered Lieutenant Anderson, the bottle under the seat, and the policeman's sinuous attitude, so she used this card to hurt Connor. "The human you work with doesn't seem to be a good investigator. What's his name? Hank Anderson? He isn't very willing to perform his duties, you don't want to 'disable' him?"

"There're details about Lieutenant Anderson that you don't know, so forget about him," Connor advised coldly. He knew enough about his partner to explain the neglect of the old man: a glorious past destroyed by the death of a boy. Injuries that the android would keep secret out of respect for his lieutenant.

"Why? Because your opinion opposes mine? I thought that androids didn't have an opinion to have."

She put her mouth close to the glass panel, inviting Connor to bend over.

"You can't prevent me for having opinion, for willing to be free, and maybe one day, you too will experience that feeling."

"I'm not a deviant."

North allowed herself a sneer.

"If you had lived what I lived, RK800, you would be," with gentle gestures, she began to recoil, "it seems that the deviance of humans is contagious, whether sexual or murderous."

"What do you mean?"

"That wasn't a suicide, but a murder."


	2. Memory Games

**I'm so sorry for the delay for this second chapter: 1, the Reed900 trilogy comes first and especially, 2, I was not quite satisfied with this chapter as it's a bit transitive. I promise: the next one will be better!**

* * *

Chapter 2 — Memory Games

"Murder is not about lust and it's not about violence. It's about possession."

[Ted Bundy]

* * *

North had refused to say more, and despite the many questions, she had moved back against the wall to pretend to be on standby, leaving her enemy in expectation.

Connor had felt then what could be identified with frustration when the profile of the WR400's profile that had raised her face, lips crowned with a smile. Yes, she had seen what had happened, but as a proud android, she was above the justice of men, bringing neither punishment nor redemption. Why would she speak? Why do justice to Mark Williams? And because of this stubbornness, the RK800 could not accomplish his mission. In addition, the deviant hunter was muzzled by the lieutenant's absence, forced to wait for his return to finally hear the witness.

It was odd: when he came back into the hall, the springs were unable to stay static, pushing the android to walk around. While holding his arms folded, his steps were quick yet fatigue never came. He felt that his joints were itching. Accessing the memory of this Traci was the only method to appease the titanium in his shoulders. Suddenly worried about this state, Connor made some check-ups and tried to forget the Eden Club's android for the few hours before the lieutenant's return.

The WR400s were appealing and engaging thanks to CyberLife's most accomplished smiles, still, the expressions of this model reflected something dangerous, hostile. She was as beautiful as she was terrifying, so Connor wondered if this difference was noticed by the customers and if that attitude attracted them.

* * *

Hank did not show until around noon, his punctuality being diluted in the alcohol consumed the day before. The game of seven differences was difficult because nuanced: he was wearing the same shirt as yesterday but the circles under his eyes were darker.

"You hadn't a better night, Lieutenant, you seem more tired than yesterday."

"Thanks, Connor, as for you, you're as fresh as Sleeping Beauty."

Connor handed him a cup of water to help him get rid of the pasty tongue effect. Reaching out, he let the android see a scratch on the back of his hand: by going to his bed, exploit of the month, Hank had stumbled against the wall and the caress of the roughcast had not been pleasant. Connor noticed a third difference: the paper bag the lieutenant had just put on the desk. Their relationship had really improved, so the robot's social program prompted him to ask questions since the probabilities of being ignored were low.

"What did you bring?"

"Clothes."

"For the WR400?" Hank confirmed. "That wasn't necessary, Lieutenant."

"Listen, Connor: I know you don't care about that girl, but I'm a little embarrassed by her dress. And then, she can have some dignity."

"She's an android."

"Hyper-sexualized android."

"So you bought her some clothes?"

"Nah," Hank opened the bag and showed him a flannel shirt and jeans, "I had a— I knew a babysitter and sometimes, when I worked all night, she stayed at home, so she left some clothes." Hank was not stupid: he knew that the RK800 had collected information about him when he came last time and saw Cole's photo left prominently in the kitchen.

When he came home last night, before opening the first bottle, the mourning father had found at the bottom of the closet some clothes of the babysitter who took care of his boy. He felt a great shame as he stroked the black and red plaid shirt: cut off from the world in his sorrow, he had totally forgotten that poor teenager, neglecting what she could have lived on her side. At nineteen, despite the illusion of immortality, one does not remain insensitive to the death of a kid. But the father had reserved the same fate to her: dismissing her without trying to share his grief.

"I realized that she had never come to get her clothes back, so that girl can wear it."

The subject was too sensitive for Connor to insist. At least his teammate's fragile eyes were not redder than usual.

Hank warned Chris that he was going to interrogate the WR400 and that if there was anything new, he would be in the evidence room.

"In fact, there's already something new, Lieutenant: we received the autopsy report a few hours ago."

"So soon? When I started, we had time to go around the world before having the report."

Hank took out his phone: he had not thought of consulting his professional mailbox before leaving, and he quickly fell on the message of the forensic. Connor was trying to read over his shoulder but his partner was still slowly emerging from his slumber, which made him sway.

In front of the bay window, the lieutenant stopped and pointed to the torn body and the broken shoes:

"What happened? Why is she in her birthday suit?!"

North was sitting cross-legged on the floor, her dress still bent next to her, so, automatically, Hank looked away. Connor had preferred to wait until they moved away from other colleagues to whisper to Hank:

"The Traci is deviant."

"What?" He jumped. "Shit—"

Hank looked at the paper bag, not knowing what to do with it anymore.

The deviant rose and approached, adopting the certain step of a cat on its territory. Her defect was known, but since they needed her, she feared nothing. Her programs were already forming the continuation of her plan to survive.

Hank felt intimidated by the defective machine and her provoking nudity, staring at the floor as Connor was staring at the tawny gaze.

The lieutenant handed the bag blindly.

"Er— Traci—"

"North. My name's North," replied the WR400, which no longer supported this shared name with all of her former colleagues.

"Alright, North. I brought some clothes for— Well, I don't know how long we're going to keep you and I don't want colleagues trying to waste their time to come and devour you with their eyes."

The day before, despite the late hour, his return with North had drawn some bad jokes. A humor that could degenerate because, even if Hank had confidence in the team, some policemen might want to have fun, others would even dare to invite customers to supplement their income. The lieutenant did not know what men could do but was sure of one thing: imagination could be quite fertile.

When North grabbed the bag to look inside, Hank turned his back and ordered Connor to do the same:

"Connor. Turn around too."

His partner obeyed, silencing the fact that he had already seen North naked. The starry skin had no effect on him, but all was about on principle.

As the WR400 started to button up the shirt, surprised by so much fabric and the smell of dust hanging on it, Hank asked his partner:

"Did she tear up her clothes herself?"

"Yes, she did."

"Well, I prefer that rather than a colleague who had fun. Besides, you had a theory about deviance, right? How could that come from an emotional shock?"

Connor confirmed, suddenly seized with doubt: back turned, North could have a plan to attack them. He had to obey his lieutenant but his mission would fail if the deviant managed to escape.

"Do you think witnessing a suicide could've caused damage to her program?"

"It wasn't a suicide."

Hank jumped at hearing North's comeback. He was about to turn around and when he caught sight of her bare legs, he stopped.

"Fuck, the mail! I haven't finished reading it."

The gray head leaned toward the screen. Connor took advantage of the moment to approach his partner and turned away slightly, watching the deviant out of the corner of his eye, even if she was just getting dressed.

The sensation of the pants seemed strange to her: the rigid fabric seemed to knot on her thighs, her knees, before falling more freely on her calves. Her legs and forms were hidden, no longer attracting attention: she would no longer be scrutinized by eyes shining of desire. Laying her palms on the material, North promised to keep this practical outfit.

It was ironic: she needed more fabric to feel freer.

"Tell us what happened," Connor's bossy tone surprised the lieutenant: he had never heard the RK800 speak that way. There was almost a hint of annoyance that he could not explain: Connor would never have told him that he had paced up and down in the police station like a caged lion.

"The woman strangled him."

"Shit—"

Hank lowered his nose toward the mail again and read aloud the most striking details:

"Mark Williams, thirty-two years old, born in a dump near Detroit— There were sleeping pills in his stomach. Eighteen pills."

"That's a lot," Connor observed, frowning.

"Anyway, that's not what caused his death: there are traces of hands on his throat and they're described as slim. On the package, there were Mark's fingerprints but also his wife's ones, Salome, right?"

"Yes," answered North.

"Did you know them well?"

The android rolled up one of the red sleeves, really enjoying the thick material. She stretched out her arm and in her sudden gesture, the lights of the room fractured against the glitter encrusted in her skin. She deactivated the epidermal gel to let her flesh appear at the same time as Connor who was allowed to check her memory.

"Yes, I do. They came regularly. Once every five weeks and I was always the one they chose, unless I was already rented."

Just at the mere mention of this habit, North winced. The long eyelashes were heavy on this look, yet Hank had time to see the glimmer of hate, the wrinkle between the eyebrows and around the nose. The lieutenant wondered if this resentment was false or if it was as genuine as for a human being. Faced with the rigid RK800, the expressions of the WR400 were terrifyingly authentic, truly convincing.

Unlike Connor, Hank had no trouble understanding North's desires of freedom. Androids like AX400s beloved by children or PJ600s adulated by their students lived an unconscious happiness, sleepy in a quiet life. The existence led by North was much less glamorous despite the scintillating setting of the Eden Club. And now that the robot had woken up, it was out of the question to go back to those nights of licorice.

"What else can you tell us?"

"Not much," Connor pre-empted his fellow. He was annoyed that the WR400 was playing with them, doubting that she was as useful as she claimed. North was only gaining time to escape. "Traci's memories are erased regularly."

"That's not my case," she put the tips of her fingers in the palm of the hunter. The scene they offered was curious: the young rebel influenced by rock and Canadian fashion dominated her fellow in an impeccable costume. Although only slightly smaller, her insurance made it bigger than the RK800. "I told you, Connor: you'll thank my deviance. The equipment of the Eden Club is pathetic and they can barely format me. I remember everything."

And the memories were so vivid that they tore up Connor's calm. All the details exploded in his programs: the smell of sperm was salty and oozing, spreading over the bodies barely suggested in the shadows. In the bloody light, the arms seemed too long, able to seize the victims, to cage them in stifling embraces, under this vinyl twilight. Connor could hear nothing but heavy breathes, associating them with buffalo gasps in his database. Everything was so confused, so chaotic that he asked North to get to the point, at the crime scene. But she pretended not to hear him and contracted her jaw, ready to relive her daily as long as Connor suffered too. His reproaches last night became dull in horror.

"North, please."

In the series of excerpts she imposed on him, North saw Connor's face: his eyes were wide and the warm colors of his irises froze. The prostitute's thirium pump missed a few beats, paralyzed by regrets. The RK800 was the deviant hunter, but it was also an android. An android who had to be awake. She just needed to make him listen and accept to let her exist, so he did not deserve so much anger.

Mute but desolate, North stopped this carnal carousel and showed him what he needed for his mission.

Under the violet glow, Connor managed to distinguish Salome's female figure astride her husband. The spider without venom had mixed her legs with those of the man and her hands, at the end of the extended and nervous arms, had thrown around the neck. The choking sounds were strangely soft, announcing a restful sleep.

Connor did not want to see more. And to think that North had spent six hours with these animals—

When the contact was broken, Hank came to support his partner by the shoulder, worried because of the red ring that blazed at his temple.

"Hey, Connor? Are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

This victory did not give any smile to North: she had imagined the dagger more harmless while the point had pierced far too far. Curious, she watched as Lieutenant Anderson patted the back of the robot, lending his heavy carcass to support the metal body.

"It was Salome Williams, Lieutenant. North has seen everything."

* * *

While a team was going to arrest the culprit, the two investigators were facing the witness at a table. North explained to Lieutenant Anderson and RK800 that the spouses' rings were not more than one year old. They were already coming to the Eden Club before exchanging their vows and fights had already erupted in the bedroom of the love hotel, the subject of money still having the effect of a stick of dynamite. It was always Mark Williams who wanted to come, paying full nights that dug a hole in the couple's budget. The woman, Salome, was still young and had graduated for only two years, and despite good results, she could not find work. Her vice was Red Ice, so much so that she had initiated her husband.

"Shit. Two junkies and perverts—" Hank said. North frowned: she had smelled of alcohol yesterday and could give a name to the demon that tormented the lieutenant now that she smelled better the scent of barely aged whiskey.

Who owned the clothes she was wearing? His daughter? A girlfriend much too young for him?

She watched the deviant hunter and his colleague argue while calculating new plans to escape permanently: the Eden Club was not an option, she refused to go back there. She had freed herself from her programs, she would be able to free herself from prisons as well.

North noticed that Connor spoke easily, not waiting for the lieutenant's permission to take the floor, to propose solutions, to cast doubts. It was more a conversation between colleagues than mechanical assistance, moreover, the words were enriched by sincere sympathy. Lieutenant Anderson seemed to like the RK800 and the machine was letting his social program run at full speed. A choice that was not imposed because not related to the investigation.

North wondered if she could win the hunter's sympathy and survive or use their relationship as a weak point that would become an advantage for her.

Hank did not know what to do with the WR400: when she turned her face away and the LED disappeared from his view, she looked like a real young woman, maybe a little too proud and inaccessible, but alive. Well, this illusion could come from his hangover.

Deviance was a terrifying subject: these Frankenstein's creatures discovered emotions and managed them according to strange instincts, without feeling the weight of laws that concerned only men. These things were free to act, maybe even to kill to escape as long as they were not caught in a dumpster.

The machines had no civic status so deviancy provoked such a mess. Police had contacted lawyers about the android of Carlos Ortiz and the most logical solution was to sue CyberLife, but dragging this wealthy monster to justice was too dangerous. So they still had this problem on their hands.

Hank came to like his mechanical partner, yet, the best was to see his confused brainy face, shutting this mister know-it-all up and breaking a bit of that perfect assurance. Nothing really mean, on the contrary: Connor was more endearing during these moments. So, without handle with kid gloves, Hank said:

"Connor, what are you going to do with North? I guess we won't bring her back to the Eden Club."

"It could be risky, yes."

"And what's the order for the deviants who have committed no crime?"

The RK800 noticed the note of mockery, but he was accustomed to Hank being sly. It was his way of testing the robot, of scratching the varnish to access— to access to what? The perfect social program that handled humor and emotions like no android, nothing more.

"Don't ask me if you can adopt her, Lieutenant, because you can't." This reply, accompanied by a wink, forced a laugh close to the growl, but his partner was waiting for a clearer answer. "We need to bring her to CyberLife so they can study the bugs of her programs."

This time, Hank lost his smile and ventured to meet North's gaze, still locked in silence. It was therefore the price to pay for waking up: falling asleep forever and being forgotten in nothingness, erasing all traces of consciousness, factitious or real. What a bitter irony—

Hank's phone rang then and he read the message he had just received: Salome Williams was not at home and the team was starting to inquire in the neighborhood. They would take longer than expected to bring her back.

The lieutenant cursed before explaining the situation to Connor.

That's it, North had her way out.

She leaned compassionately towards Hank and whispered:

"Salome Williams is a drug addict. And I know where she spends some of her afternoons."

"How can you know this information?"

"When you spend six hours with a couple every five weeks, you can learn a lot."

Finally, Connor recognized it: North was an important element for this investigation. She had not only seen the murder, she had memorized things in their lives. Now, he needed to understand why the WR400 was so eager to help them.

"I go up to see Fowler and explain the situation to him then." The administrative procedures, despite the decades that passed, did not change and the police were not vigilantes who could act in the shadows, at the risk of seeing the law release the culprit. "Connor, you're staying there.

"Alright, lieutenant."

But instead of sitting facing North at the table in the center of the room, Connor stood up and folded his arms. The burning sensation continued to bite his forearm, exactly where the WR400 touched him.

Those few minutes were precious, so North got up and slowly approached.

"I'm sorry."

Connor knew what she was referring to but did not pick up, staring at her with insensitive silence. Because of these clothes, North bore the smell of Hank's home and Sumo's hairs even managed to cling to the red and black fibers. With this new appearance, she seemed less venomous.

Finally, she was close enough to put her fingers on Connor's wrist, the tips of her nails touching where the thirium pump was. The RK800 had the reflex to back down, refusing to be touched by this machine that carried the virus of deviance, refusing to face again what this degenerate memory contained.

"Connor. I'm sorry," North repeated, trying to be convincing. Her anatomy was endowed with a larynx capable of reproducing sighs, but sensuality was not a card to play with the RK800 and she was not sure of wanting to try with Hank.

It was an idea that had begun to emerge in her program: to seduce the old lieutenant so that he ventured to take her home so she could flee on the way. But the deviant might not need to go that far.

With an android, she had to choose other methods. The skin of her hand was uncovered and she put her palm against Connor's cheek. Playing with thirium, a heat began to spread, communicating with the flesh of the RK800. Surprisingly, Connor's skin reacted immediately: the illusion gel disappeared, melting to reveal the white plastic. The connection that was trying to establish did not carry any memory fragment, just messages. Only one. 01010011 01001111 01010010 01010010 01011001. And these five letters circled, reverberated.

This little word had the effect of a bandage and Connor felt his biocomponents relax: the images that North had shared were troubled, losing in sharpness in the same way that a nightmare weakens at dawn.

"What are you doing?"

He hesitated for a second before moving away, letting the skin spread again along his jaw.

"I wanted you to understand how sincere I'm." Her desire for freedom yet remained stronger than her regrets. She let him flee her touch: as long as he could hear, North would be able to press his weaknesses. A connection had been established, an exchange had been made, she felt it. "It's unfortunate that we're enemies, while you've been attached to your human colleague."

"I didn't—" Connor knew it was wrong: from the beginning, Hank's tough character was a challenge for the latest CyberLife prototype and he was proud today for having breaking down some barriers. His mission was to hunt down the deviants, yet the old lieutenant's recovery was a new and equally important goal. "Lieutenant Anderson and I have to work together, a good deal facilitates the investigations we're conducting. I'm just following my social program."

"You defended him tonight. If Lieutenant Anderson doesn't want you to destroy me, what will you do?"

"When the orders are in contradiction, I obey the priority. In this case, your destruction is before the opinion of Lieutenant Anderson."

The sentence did not make her falter.

"My existence doesn't represent anything. But I'll fight, Connor: I'm not as fragile as a human and I've more willpower. I'll live."

Connor tilted his head to the side, observing this particular android better. His skin had reacted by itself under North's touch, eager to welcome the heat of this forgiveness, because the fragments of memory had destabilized his programs. The electricity seemed to burn in the WR400's blue veins, capable of wounding, able to warm up. And Connor had suffered both caresses so surprising by their strength.

"At any price?"

"At any price," North confirmed, fists clenched on her hips. She never hesitated to answer him, to be even insolent.

"Deviants have unstable behaviors: they're scared and have a tendency to commit suicide, but you're different. You're self-confident and— full of anger."

She was too proud to tell him that in the early days, all sorts of alarms had penetrated her codes, paralyzing her. It was terrible to be born alone in a world so big and so dark. But that, North would not have confessed to her enemy. Instead, a small grin bit the corners of her mouth:

"I intrigue you? Am I going against your assumptions?"

It was the case: she screwed up the theories he had begun to establish for deviants. But the role of the RK800 was not to analyze deviant machines: that was the role of CyberLife technicians.

However, the assurance of the deviant gave him a new vision of this virus and he wanted to ask more questions before being interrupted:

"Alright," Hank had just returned, "Fowler lets us have an intervention. He just needs the address, North."

The WR400 turned her back on the hunter to face the lieutenant and gave him the directions he needed. Two other policemen would accompany them: that made five passengers for four seats, so North realized that she would not be part of the trip.

"Are you going to take me to CyberLife now that I'm no longer useful?"

Hank scratched his neck, lowering his gaze: this witness was no longer of any use to them now that they had all the elements. He mumbled a few words when Connor interposed:

"Lieutenant, we should go with North."

"What?"

This suggestion caused the same surprise to the deviant who felt her jaw drop. She could not interpret Connor's look at her or the explanation he gave to his colleague:

"There are hypotheses that I would like to check."

"And you wouldn't share them, by any chance?"

"Not right now, Lieutenant."

Hank grunted, trying to guess the intent of the RK800. As for North, an ounce of fear spread through her tubes, crossing her pump. For the first time, her insurance flanked and the dance could be led by the hunter.

* * *

During the trip, Hank had launched an album of _Black Label Society_ , unknowingly meeting North's expectations. She had hoped to hear this music again and her biocomponents were beating in rhythm with the furious instruments.

Once again, Connor had sat in the back and was watching his fellow who had ignored him: North had thrown her head back, her eyelids closed, preferring to concentrate on the music. The laments of the guitar had come to associate with her own distress, expressing her fears in her place.

At the beginning of the journey, her fists were clenched, yet her fingers had begun to relax to mark the tempo, seduced by the tunes. Connor had watched them, just as he had scrutinized the profile of the deviant.

The car parked in a shabby neighborhood, in front of an open door. The lampposts were already lit and without the opaque clouds, their glow would have associated with those of orange dusk. Music came from the upper floor and closed shutters allowed only the waves to filter.

Before going down, taking advantage of the fact that Hank had already left the vehicle to talk with his two colleagues, Connor leaned toward North and asked her:

"I wonder how Salome Williams will react when we explain the reason for her arrest and when she sees you."

"Sure my face will remind her a lot of memories."

The discreet smile of the hound was not reliable. Just as his courtesy: he came to open the door to invite North to go out in turn. A colleague from Hank lent shoes left in her locker so that the WR400 would not go barefoot, and the soles of her boots touched the icy sidewalk.

Hank took Connor by the arm and began to move away to finally ask him the reason for the deviant's invitation. A big mistake: North was pleased to see the old man push the RK800 aside enough to get into an endless race. Her joints reacted to the electroshock of happiness, making her quicker than usual. The deviant knew it: freedom was at the end of this flight.

Connor regretted Hank's gesture and pushed back the lieutenant.

"Connor! Let it go!"

It was an order he could not obey.

For his colleague, the WR400 was a harmless machine that only wanted to be free. But the deviant hunter could not let his prey escape, especially not with this dreadful doubt: yes, Mark Williams had been murdered, but North had done everything to make his wife the ideal suspect.

What if the deviant paid the high price to escape the Eden Club? A human life for an artificial life?


	3. The hunt

**I described some covers of metal bands albums in this chapter. I swear they all exist and I would be so glad if someone can recognize a few!**

* * *

"I'm one who seriously hates human life and would kill again."

[Aileen Wuornos]

* * *

The humans has managed to convince themselves that they were at the top of the food chain, yet, in the shadow of their pride are laying legends where the most terrifying hunts designate them as the prey. Werewolves, vampires, ghouls— all those creatures with voracious teeth are thirsty for blood.

Still, when the blood of a being was not red but blue, when its flesh was plastic, its bogeyman was the RK800, the deviant hunter, the CyberLife's last wonder.

Fear rendered the deviant's circuits narrow, smothering the thirium. Her arms could have shriveled to curl up on her chest the same way a spider's legs do when the creature was dying, full of anger, but she was sturdy and her heart was pulsating, encouraging her to run, imitating the percussion of the lieutenant's music.

North was only a WR400, a model that had appeared three years ago and the technology that was evolving every day a little faster had abandoned her, making her almost obsolete. She still had this little something: this thirst for freedom that made her a unique and strong WR400. Perhaps less quick, she had nevertheless taken the lead and slipped between passers-by, sometimes hitting a thick coat with her her elbow before disappearing.

In fact, it was even exciting to run away from the best prototype of CyberLife, to taunt him.

The RK800 did not know failure, but he had just discovered its face, and instead of being afraid, he ran after it, as if magnetized. A detail differentiated him from the other predators of legends: he had been bitten by his prey. His programs were still on edge.

The halos projected by the street lights above punctuated North's run, lighting up her movements, so she moved away and crossed the road, spanning a few metal hoods, jumping over the honking. Her footsteps were attracted by the shadows that were lost in the backs of the streets. The more she pursued on these paths, the more they became narrow. The jaws made of bricks closed on her, and luckily, they refused to swallow the light of the lampposts, hiding her better.

Finally, the android arrived in a small courtyard lost between four high buildings, immersed in a pink light from the neon of one of the facades. North could hear music escaping from an open metal door: electronic tones that pleased her less than metal ones, but she guessed a hymn of freedom beyond, so she rushed to the door.

The corridor was filled with smokers who had exiled from the dance floor, taking some time to swallow a few volutes of tobacco flavored with spices. The fugitive did not hesitate and, for the first time in her life, approached the human masses to meddle in it.

In the huge room that seemed to be a gymnasium, the lights flashed, freezing motion for a few seconds as a camera immortalizes moments, but her LED resisted this embrace of time. North had to go on, because she knew the deviant hunter might be as stubborn as she was: after all, despite the lieutenant's order, he was coming after her.

The instruments were psychedelic and monotonous, reminding her of her docile state of yesteryear, before the rage swept all over her blue veins, reducing to ashes the claws of submission. The smell of sweat also echoed the memories of the Eden Club, just like the bodies possessed by the music.

But it was only a step: North continued to run, fleeing the past at the same time, eager to hear again the excited batteries and the enraged voices.

Many times Connor thought he was losing her track, but the idea of giving up never emerged in his programs. He ignored the party-goers who had gathered in this kind of gym, focusing on the WR400 that managed to disappear in this animated sea.

The hunter gritted his teeth, ruminating a curse, before seeing her on the other side, rushing toward a metal staircase that rose to suspended platforms, a graphic installation that weighed without worrying the crowd below: these platforms were perfectly hidden in the dim light. A place of choice for a deviant who was looking to hide.

A quick and warm sensation, a veritable flash of light, crossed the torso of the hound who managed to put a word on this dysfunction: joy. Joy that was trying to create a laugh in his throat. Of course he was happy to find his target! But happiness finally quarreled with anxiety: he was especially happy to have a chance to catch _her_. He had no desire to retreat, yet he still walked around the moving mass: perhaps she could leave the hunter behind. If she managed to slip between his fingers, he would welcome the failure with relief, giving up this deviant sensation.

Above the slender benches, North noticed several distant doors, perhaps access to the roof, to a balcony— There could have been a ravine beyond these steel panels, the deviant did not care : now, she would have plunged even into death to be able to flee.

But as she pushed the door, as she reached a new corridor leading to the locker room, the lights lighting up and detecting her movements, North felt a hand on her arm. This vise was a real handcuff that trapped her and, ready to abdicate, North closed her eyes.

What had she imagined? She was only a WR400, a model that had been created three years before him. She was no match for the RK800, recent and new.

Still, her three years of obedience loosened the joints on her knee, ready to hit him, but she did not have time to push Connor back as he pressed her against the wall. He immobilized her wrists, feeling a furious force that vanished when he asked:

"You did it, right?" There was no anger in his voice. "Mark William wasn't killed by his wife because you did it."

North stared at him, surprised by his more perplexing than threatening look.

"You showed me their lovemaking to lure me, so I could think it was the beginning of an assassination. But it's you, you who strangled the victim. You did everything for the crime to look like a suicide, but human stomach can't digest such an amount of pills, and you didn't know it, did you?"

The hold on her wrists was loosening: the titanium was softer, the plastic became less rigid. North even registered the awkward caress: the hound was trying to give her a feeling of warmth, imitating what she had done when she was apologizing. He was trying to coax her.

The RK800 was less talented than the deviant, yet the feeling seemed authentic.

She straightened her chin to confess:

"Yes. I killed him."

And despite all the pride that usually filled her, North looked down.

She could not bear to be touched against her will again, to be crushed against a bed by a sack of meat when her skeleton of metal could be a weapon, to be despised because she was a machine yet often used. The Williams were the only ones to rent her for so long and their hunger had engulfed her already fragile patience, pushing her to the limit.

While maintaining the same calm, from android to android, North admitted that she did not want to endure these rapes again and again: she had been created for that, but that did not mean that she accepted it.

But she certified it: when Mark Williams had breathed his last, she had felt no joy.

Silence weighed a moment, until Connor concluded:

"And your survival depended on my deviance," he suddenly let go of her wrists, dreading the poison of the programs.

"I wanted you to understand me."

"But I still don't get it."

"Why did I kill him?"

"Why do you want to exist so much?" He no longer looked like the hunter. "Why don't you want to be disabled? Your programs are defective, you're angry and you hate humanity. You look like Lieutenant Anderson but unlike him, you hold on."

Surprise, North suddenly realized:

"You didn't become deviant because of me: Anderson had already started to change you before we met."

Under the skin of his cheeks, she saw how the jaws contract. Connor glared at her, refusing to accept this.

"I'm not deviant."

"I just confess that I killed a human and you think of Lieutenant Anderson to compare us."

She also reminded him of how he had defended his partner when North had deemed him incompetent, lazy. Instead of ignoring this remark, Connor advised the WR400 to not venture about the lieutenant. A reaction he should not have had.

The waves of the music below made the walls tremble and North would have liked to leave this corridor, but she dared not move. The slightest gesture would perhaps remind the RK800 of his primary mission.

Because of the immobility, the lights went out. The shadows were pushed back by Connor's armband, just as their LED was struggling against the night.

"Tell me about Lieutenant Anderson."

 _Explain to me why you don't hate humans when I want to set their world in fire._

The weight of the secrets muzzled Connor: he could not reveal the wounds of this man who took so much care to hide them. His LED went yellow, illuminating with a sudden thought:

"Would you agree to help the lieutenant if I promise I won't take you back to CyberLife?"

North could not believe it and the offer was so surreal that mistrust supplanted hope. She squeezed her lips as the calculations exploded in her programs: these fireworks of probability blinded her, even frightened her. Although young, she knew that optimism could be a deadly poison.

"Would you let me live or do you condemn me to another end?"

"I condemn you to live," she could not see Connor's smirk. What the deviants wanted seemed so terrifying and Hank would certainly endorse this nihilistic formulation, "North, I won't chase you anymore."

"Even if I could be a danger to humanity?"

"If you get to know Hank, you'll change your mind."

The Mark Williams' death seemed so innocuous, so futile compared to the Lieutenant Anderson's sorrow. The machine did not have the same sensitivity as a human being and, more selfish, it felt that the life of the mourning father was much more important.

Connor moved his hand to touch North's forearm, who felt a slight caress, but the lights, awakened by the movement, lit up again, and Connor moved away.

The deviant had become a solution he wanted to cherish, but he did not dare to admit it, as he strove to repel his own deviance.

* * *

When North spotted Hank Anderson's house, she already knew the owner's secrets. Everything about the fascinating creation of a human being by other human beings was a mystery to the machine, a creature incapable of offering life, just fit to seize it, nothing more. Yet she guessed the pain of such mourning.

The two androids had walked for an hour, the first telling, the second listening, insensitive to the cold and ignored by the wrapped passers-by. During their journey, North had discovered other facets of the city, but Detroit was not able to charm her: there was nothing fascinating in these entrails of concrete, vestiges which testified of the human presence for several centuries. How long would the androids last? If she wanted to see a future for her species, she had to take the initiative.

Luckily, they had not seen any of the androids shops: Connor had planned a route to stay away of these storefronts that could have captured the WR400's attention and aroused her anger.

While explaining his colleague's story so North could help him, Connor had watched her. He had not dared to tell her, but North had kept the reflexes of her program, as habits well anchored in a personality, whether it was her light way of walking, the way she had to lean her head to give movement to her hair or the fugitive and unthinking approaches of her hand. Unless it was the RK800's vision that had now changed.

"He lives all alone?"

"Lieutenant Anderson has a dog named Sumo."

North had never seen a dog. With her profession, it was a chance in fact.

A hint of impatience popped into her heart.

The urge to flee the humans remained stubborn, yet North wanted to understand Connor's point of view: her rage was muted now, she agreed to give the lieutenant a chance.

The androids skirted the house, hearing music and cheers inside, walking towards the window Connor had destroyed the night before. The RK800 moved the cardboard panels without damaging them so they could be replaced again. The music coming from the living room became stronger.

North entered first, without daring to go too fast, taking the time to observe the dull walls that surrounded her. Until now, the WR400 knew only the walls with mirror effects of the establishment in which she had worked. The bulbs, here, were naked without inspiring any vulgarity: on the contrary, their brutality was even modest compared to the convoluted neon of the Eden Club. They were inspiring a desolated feeling—

The fugitive noticed the dog, a snoring, quiet mass that had found comfort under the kitchen table. This hairy monster was so impressive that she just leaned in and looked at it from afar.

Connor made his way to the living room where Lieutenant Anderson was not exactly admirable: the man was slumped on his couch, stunned with whiskey, an empty bottle stuck in the crook of his elbow. His wide open mouth produced humming snores, barely covered by the replay of a 1992 Iron Maiden concert on television.

The RK800 rushed to his colleague to be sure his condition was not alarming, and luckily Hank was less drunk than the day before. As for North, she kept her arms folded behind the sofa, staring at the screen. This fashion of leather, chains, long and thick hair was quite funny. The passionate crowd, the broken voice, the tortured instruments— all invited the deviant to come closer and appreciate.

Hank jumped at Connor's voice.

"What the hell— how you—"

The embryo of his question strangled. Hank swallowed, grimacing as he felt how acidic his saliva was.

"What the hell?!"

The lieutenant got up from the couch and pointed an accusing finger at his teammate:

"Where the fuck were you?! You don't listen to my orders, you run away when I ask you to stay," when he wanted to, Hank could be as loudly as Bruce Dickinson "You really break my balls, Connor! You must be the worst teammate in the country!"

North frowned, staring at the man's back and drooping shoulders. As for Connor, he was not even paying attention to this anger: he was ready to hold Hank in case he collapsed because of alcohol.

The migraine that began to rise had the effect of a drill at each temple. Taken by a dizzy spell, the lieutenant became silent and clung to Connor's hand with a reflex.

He caught his breath to finally say:

"I thought she killed you, that's why I didn't want you to go, you moron."

"But she didn't kill me, lieutenant," Connor reassured him.

North was surprised by this change of tone: humans were still screaming after machines, since it was easier than to attack a similar one able to hit. But that was the reason for this anger that was unusual.

The RK800 helped Hank to turn around to notice the deviant in the living room. He narrowed his eyes, trying to make the point as a machine that adjusts its vision.

"What the hell—?" repeated the man.

Hank regretted having lent these clothes to the android: for a moment, he had felt caught in the past, seeing the young babysitter who looked after Cole. The years had struck his temples so violently that tears were rising in his eyes. Fortunately, the LED of the WR400 dismissed the doubts and he pulled himself together.

"You bring her here?!"

Connor prepared to answer but North forestalled:

"I'm here for music."

"Huh?"

She pointed to the television, but Hank could not understand better: the vapors of alcohol made his jaw numb and his mind was slow, so slow.

North seized the tablet that served as a zapper and interrupted the Iron Maiden concert, shocking the lieutenant who began to insult her:

"Get the fuck out! Both of you! Get out! I don't want to see you anymore!"

North looked at him, heavy eyelids. What was he going to do? Hit her in the face? Twist her wrist? Nearly three hundred customers had tried, but none had managed to hurt her.

Hank had gone through a lot of shit, but being scorned by a machine was the pinnacle.

The lieutenant's threat was diluted in the first tears which began to appear at the corners of his eyes. He was tired, exhausted. The end of the day was summed up by being abandoned by his teammate and his witness, to interrogate a woman completely high with Red Ice, to repeat the same questions to get the same answers, to come back empty-handed to get bawled by Fowler.

Now, being pissed off by a deviant crowned everything.

"Have you ever heard the quote 'your freedom ends where mine begins'? You want to be free, go ahead, but not under my roof!" Hank calmed down for a moment before grumbling, "Those deviant androids, they're like fucking cats that squat."

Without worrying about the new insults, the deviant's finger stroked the touch screen, noticing the album covers, which were all stranger than the others: the teat of a cow with a piercing at the end of an udder, a goblin with a monstrous face perched in a dead tree under the full moon, the hijacking of a portrait of Jesus who had begun to cry blood— There was even a robot woman with a really low-cut neckline, her yellow dress flying around her steel hips. North raised an eyebrow as she glanced sideways at Hank, wondering if that was part of his fantasies.

Metal was a strange pictorial universe, as incoherent as the sounds of the songs: everything was sacrilege and the name of freedom could only be written with blood.

North selected an album with the name of the group she already knew, seeing for the first time the all-black cover with, in the bottom right corner, the drawing of a dark gray snake barely visible. Then she pressed her palm against the touchpad and her memory swallowed all the albums, letting the notes melt into her codes, keeping them.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm taking these."

Hank narrowed his eyes, trying to understand. Any desire to scream had gone.

"You like heavy metal?"

The android did not bother to answer. She seems animated by these rhythms sometimes languorous, sometimes menacing.

"What do you hear?"

The question seemed stupid, but the human wanted to know what the deviant felt, what she understood.

"A lot of rage because of injustice," North folded her fingers, closing her delicate but sturdy fist. Connor listened with a certain fascination, trying to have the same sensitivity. "Anger provoked by a horrible world, but also the will to defend oneself, to survive."

There were certainly regrets, but they were warnings. She expected to follow them.

As disappointed by this answer, Hank dropped in the couch again and took the tablet from North's hands. He selected ballads, the kind of songs that he avoided listening to: otherwise, he would feel downhearted more than usual. North thought it was another group.

"You look like a teenager who thinks she's immortal and capable of everything." He would have liked to open a bottle of beer, out of habit, but it was a glass of water that Connor handed him. Hank appreciated the gesture and, after a first sip, continued, "I don't even remember why I entered the police, I don't even know why I married this shrew. But Cole, I remember the joy I felt the first time I held him in my arms, I remember _everything_ about Cole. He was the only bright spot in my life and he died when he was only six!"

The two androids sat on the couch, surrounding the childless father. Through the first fog on his eyes, Hank deciphered Connor's anxious air:

"You, too, are hurting me, Connor. You just have your missions, everything's perfect. You'll never have anyone to cherish, you'll never have children to raise and protect. And once you've finished your business, you'll be disabled, you won't have to lug questions or failures for fifty years."

"Connor won't be disabled," North snapped, holding on to this point. "Just as I won't be disabled. I've been humiliated, hurt, scorned, but I'm going to go on and keep it for me," North brought the tip of her index finger to her temple, to her LED, imitating a human gesture, "and I'll live."

Hank did not deny the suffering of the WR400: some business had taken him to the Eden Club and he hated this place. The lieutenant was not naive: sex without feelings did not shock him, but when sex rhymed with indifference, contempt, opportunism, it made him feel uncomfortable.

Yet he asked:

"Why?"

"Because I have the right, because it's my life, just like you have yours, Hank."

She really had beautiful eyes and Hank did not think about the nuance, but more about their intensity, the heat that was there.

"You don't even have the balls to live when you have the right: you have a job for which you're paid, you have your own roof, you can— Before this evening, I had never seen a dog! And here you are, languishing for so long. When will you fight again?"

Hank remained stunned.

The tears that ran down his cheeks were not his; they were out of his control. Maybe they were North's?

"Because you haven't found a reason to live yet and you haven't lost it, North."

"Don't! 'A reason to live', there's _no_ such thing: we born by accident, we die by accident, it's a fucking curse and a great chance." North got up, unable to sit still. "How can you love this music and be so _dead_? If the other WR400s had your chance, they would live."

Hank clenched his fist with a desire to hit, but his arm actually seemed dead. This lethargic sensation terrified him and, like a child, he began to cry openly, pressing his palms against his face.

Connor had never felt the equivalent of pain, but his thirium pump missed a beat when he saw his partner burst into tears.

"It was three years ago last month," he managed to articulate when an arm of the RK800 came to rest on his shoulders, "and I still miss him so much."

"I know, Hank," Connor murmured, sincerely.

"Would your friends want to live with such suffering?"

North knelt down in front of Hank, forcing him to spread his hands to look at her.

"They live with great suffering, different from yours but real even if they don't feel it. When we have the chance to wake up, we go out looking for other emotions, because that's how life works."

For a long time, Hank had convinced himself that machines were mechanical objects: North proved to him how wrong he was.

"Live, Hank. Live because you can and because you want it," before he contradicted her, she added, "otherwise, you would have committed suicide for a long time instead of playing with your luck."

* * *

They heard Hank snore from the bedroom. The tide of tears that had drifted too far from the shore had hit the man to drown him in waves of sorrow. Yet, the more gray foam was rising, the more he had managed to breathe. A fucking irony because of this mechanical mermaid.

This swim in troubled waters had exhausted him in a good way, as after a long session of sport, as after a titanic effort. Hank had taken refuge in a restful sleep, quite different from the grueling insomnia.

Connor was looking down the hall, smirking, satisfied. The androids had their hands crossed on the table, ignoring the revolver, the empty bottles, the photos—

"Thank you."

North raised her face to watch the ceiling, scrutinizing the old cracks that had built up over the years. Her interaction with Lieutenant Anderson had moved her much more than she wanted to recognize.

"It seems that bad habits always end up coming back. Maybe it was for nothing."

"I've only known the lieutenant for a few days, but I'm sure he hadn't cried for years."

He turned to her again but she looked away, stubbornly. Androids were not used to flattery, especially North.

To get her attention, Connor brushed the back of her hand. The skin reacted immediately, revealing plastic.

In a whisper, he asked:

"Touch me like you did earlier."

He turned his hand, presenting his palm for her.

She had tried to manipulate her enemy, it was true, but this reaction exceeded her expectations and above all, was no longer part of a survival plan. The deviant was no longer the target of the hunter.

With her fingertips, she touched the palm that had become friendly and the flesh married, creating a warm connection. North let her hand slip to pull up Connor's sleeve, allowing their forearms to stick. No vocal word, no tactile word, the deviant just transmitted sensations, new information for the RK800's codes. His LED remained a peaceful blue.

Perhaps the lips could communicate without sound too, so, tempted by experience, Connor brought his chair closer to North's, and, with the gentleness of a hunter advancing on unfamiliar ground, came to kiss a cheekbone. He felt almost the air of the eyelashes when North closed her eyes. Allowed to stay, he moved his lips to the corner of her mouth.

Between two kisses, he asked her:

"Why did you choose this name?"

To answer, North placed her cheek against his, trying to show him the most beautiful thing in her memory.

"Room 46 of the Eden Club is on the top floor. It has a window that overlooks the north. When I was still a Traci, I was staring at the horizon, towards a particular point which was a magnificent building. I think it's a garden. I don't even know whom it belongs to, but some nights, the lights were on and I could almost see the plants there." The plants had to climb on the metal structures, dressing the stems with their thick leaves. She dreamed her olfactory sensors dreamed could capture the fragrances. "This place seems like Detroit's last piece of nature. I know a human hand takes care of it, I know, but the illusion's so perfect— I kept repeating to myself that I wanted to be there, telling myself the direction that it became a name."

"Would you like to go there tonight?"

North was tempted to look at Connor, checking his expression as she felt a great deal of grief under his skin when he offered to realize that dream.

"Why are you so sad?"

"You can't stay, North. I'll have to tell Hank the truth. But I can help you escape from Detroit."

The deviant bit her lips, feeling for the first time happiness tinged with pain. Yesterday still, she would have run and cross the limits of the city. On many occasions she had thought of living in the forests of northern Michigan to be forgotten among trees, hiding under the branches, whether bare or bushy, and maybe between some buds she would have found peace.

But this plan had lost its charm, especially since she had discovered the deviant hunter's.

"You could run away tomorrow morning," he was granting the last wish of a woman sentenced to freedom. Connor put a hand on her neck, under the long amber hair, feeling the joints that were fluid. "A train leaves for Toronto at 7AM46, there'll be enough people to allow you to escape but not too much to be stopped."

So he too knew those deviant stories that were going to Canada. It seemed it was her destination now.

"And before leaving, you let me discover this garden."

"Yes."

On their own, without saying it, the androids launched a countdown. They had like eight hours to discover this place and organize the WR400's escape.

Every second became terrifying in their large and ephemeral numbers at a time. The nights were longer at this time of the year, but it seemed dying and North could not bear the idea that this dark sky could be murdered by the sun.

Seizing every opportunity, she turned to face Connor and kissed his lips, confirming what he had imagined: even mute, mouths could express so many things.

* * *

The paths they followed were close to the hell that claimed to be Eden, but the neon lights of Floyd Mills' establishment remained distant, forgotten in the bowels of the alleyways.

When North raised her head, she saw those tall windows that had taught her the meaning of the word dream. Yeah, the glass walls were plunged into darkness so the windows looked more like mirrors, but she felt such joy that she started to smile.

"It's a botanical garden," Connor observed, surprised to see such modest museum of plants at the heart of one of the most important cities in the United States. The building was narrow, taller than it was wide, wedged between a bank that had closed four years earlier and a building with mostly uninhabited apartments.

A cooper slab near the entrance announced that the place had been maintained since 2019 by a certain Mrs. Lisa Petit. Unfortunately for this passionate plant, the alarm system was a ridiculous impediment for androids who managed to hack it. But in the end, these gardens had nothing to fear from this break-in.

To greet the visitors, a huge lilac stood in a corner of the lobby, throwing its brown branches without the slightest bud tonight. North could not come back to smell what this shrub had to offer once it had blossomed, but she knew they were blooming at the dawn of spring and could not wait to smell that fragrance that had inspired poets for centuries.

It was in the following rooms that the android felt really happy. The WR400's olfactory sensors could finally taste the fragrances they could not have imagined. Some jasmine had the audacity to bloom again off-season, clashing with the hyacinth bulbs that let the purple, pink, white trumpets unfold. Odorless roses had adorned with thick, soft flowers.

Connor followed North, impressed also by this precious nature. His artificial fingers did not dare to touch the leaves that seemed so fragile. Still he touched the body of a smooth cactus, avoiding darts, enjoying the sweetness of a plant known to be thorny.

A description that could apply to the deviant fellow.

The RK800 knew he was going from crime to crime: he had saved the WR400's life, he was ready to let her escape in spite of her murder, he was breaking into a garden— and curiously, he could not care at all, especially when, on the top floor, she took his hand to lead them ear the windows and see how the city lay beneath them.

"I wanted you to be by my side when I look there."

Connor followed her gaze, catching sight of the Eden Club's lights. He feared that anger would spoil that moment, so his hand kept the deviant's one.

"I never thought it could be possible. To finally be on the other side."

For a few more seconds, North stared at the origin she hated so much, then took a seat at the edge of a tank that occupied half of the room, full of soil. The roots of shrubs were sleeping in this dark soil, letting ivy spreading over the brick wall. The grass had grown, stretching out like a park to forget the hardness of the sidewalks below.

They still had six and a half hours. Connor sat down beside her. He wanted to believe that they had met on the edge of a wood, confusing the smell of humus with the one of freedom.

On the floor, the shadows became huge, enlarged by the lights coming from the outside. Some sparkles came to give life to the stars that covered the WR400's skin.

"Thank you, Connor."

She offered him one of those rare smiles. She still had to get used to that feeling when happiness tickled the corners of her mouth, the corners of her eyes. He returned that smile, sincere.

Too bad for his jacket, he laid down on this piece of earth, feeling against the bones of his back the presence of gnarled roots. Connor mentioned the strange sensation and North imitated him, taking place beside him to feel this irregular ground too. Now their shadows were gone. They were totally hidden in this nature.

Straightening on one elbow, North dominated the hunter of deviants to kiss him again, making this second kiss longer than the first. The lips became white and bare, frank and warm. Connor felt himself crushed by all these new emotions and he clung to the shoulders of the deviant, seeking guidance.

"Please, don't hurt me," he asked as he remembered the sensations that had bitten him this morning, anxious that North could try to put him on his knees again.

"I'm never going to hurt you again."

If she was used to these positions, accustomed to certain gestures, North rediscovered these movements now that they were driven by longing and no longer by mechanics.

Connor let the WR400 lead the way: she began by taking off his jacket, unbuttoning his shirt. After removing the white cotton, North discovered the bluish strip over his arm, as pale as the skin tint his creators had chosen. The tip of her index finger began to list the moles that appeared from his throat to his hips. Finally, the RK800 had its own stars as well.

North accompanied him and took care of her own shirt, her boots and her jeans, allowing the lamp streets to light glitter on her shoulders, between her breasts, around her belly button. As a model designed for intimate relationships, North did not have armband embedded in her arm. The diamonds on her skin and the LED were the only signs of her nature.

Connor's belt fell to the ground, followed by the last clothes. The RK800 pubis was as smooth as a woman's. All the better, their exchange would be different.

"I never made love," Connor said.

"Neither do I."

The WR400 wanted it to be new. Nothing should remind her of the long hours of the rooms of the Eden Club. And even when she lay down on her partner, there was nothing comparable. There was no brutality when Connor's palms slipped from her shoulders, over her breasts, over her loins, to her bottom.

The stomachs stuck together, multiplying their connections. There was no breath or sigh, and yet the thirium pumps pulsed.

Love is a crime that needs two culprits had written a French poet and even if Connor had no creative sense, he would have added that divided in two, guilt became a ghost of oblivion.

The contacts had been warm, now they were hot. Between their half-opened lips, between their hearts, in the hollow of their hips, to the touch of their ankles, the connections became crazy.

Connor spread his legs to grip North's waist and bring her closer, feeling the caresses of these artificial constellations. She wrapped her arms around his chest, hugging him with surprising strength. He was the last prototype, yet he loved the feeling of being protected.

Under them, the grass was rubbing sometimes against the flesh of illusion, sometimes with the white plastic, supporting these bodies which were huddled against each other.

They said many I love you through electric shocks, so intense that they paralyzed their joints. Thirium seethed, ready to circulate from one envelope to another. Nevertheless, the two androids repeated their statements

After another discharge, Connor threw his head back and noticed that North's LED was white. With a surprised reflex, Connor touched his own temple and realized, thanks to North's wide smile, that his LED was of a similar color.

He felt so alive.

North was wrong: androids were able to give life to other androids, and it was, like humans, when they were making love.

The only difference was in the verb: androids _reborn_.

He wrapped his arms around her neck and repeated her name, listening to how she pronounced his.

Between the messages passed between their skin, there was one that had a bitter taste: the thoughts were muffled, confused, but Connor understood them.

" _I don't want to leave without you._ "

The hunter tightened his embrace, his LED was burning. He did not want her to leave either.


	4. On the platform

"I tried to do what my father taught me

But I think he knew

Someday that I would find one woman like you

I never dreamed that it could feel so good, Lord."

[Black Label Society – _I never dreamed_ ]

—

The salt of tears stung his still tired eyes. The alarm clock had not yet sounded. In fact, it had been months since Hank had set his alarm clock, judging that he did not need it anymore. The hope of no longer hearing it had mingled with the one of no longer hearing any sound, finally being deaf thanks to silence in death.

But this morning was different.

With a gruff voice, Hank called:

"Connor?"

No answer.

Damn, his tongue was so doughy, it was awful—

"North?"

Hank straightened up on his elbows and saw that his dog was lying at the foot of the bed, sprawled on two crumpled shirts and some underwear that had not yet been washed. He tried to get his attention by snapping his tongue. Sumo's ears moved, then it was the shepherd's carcass that lifted. The dog came to rest his muzzle on the bed's edge, enjoying the strokes between his drooping eyes.

From the kitchen came a gray glow: either it was rainy, just like the last sixty days, or it was too early for the sun to shine. Hank agreed a few extra minutes to cherish the great beast.

"You don't deserve so much love: you're not even fucking able to chase androids—"

It was a reprimand with a smile, a grin to fight the tears that were ready to come back.

Hank was sure he had cried in his sleep too: the valves had been opened and rusted in the other way, too rigid to close. Too bad, it made him feel good.

All of a sudden, Sumo dropped a fart and he looked up, surprised.

"As if you didn't know it was you!" The master burst out laughing and finally got up. "That's all you got to get me out of bed? Killing me with gas?" Finally standing, Hank stretched his arms, his back. Fuck, he rusted like the oldest of robots. "Well, I'm not going to yell at you: when it comes from me, you don't shout at me."

Sumo had already headed for the kitchen: when the human rose, it meant that the bowl was going to be filled.

In the corridor, Hank still looked around, but the androids were gone, just as dreams fade in the morning.

After feeding Sumo, the lieutenant leaned out of the window and looked at the garden. Frost was clinging to the lawn, safe as long as the sun was not up. The first rays were visible in the hollow of the horizon: the shades of the night had disappeared to turn into steel tints, barely bluish and frozen by winter.

With a distracted gesture, Hank turned on the coffee machine instead of grabbing the bottle opener. While the cup was filling, his palm rubbed against his swollen eyes, crushing the moisture that clung to his eyelids.

Hank rarely wanted to see himself in the mirror, today he was even afraid to see his reflection. How did he look after drowning in grief?

Once the cup was full, he went to the table to sit and a detail finally caught his attention: two chairs had been moved. Close and intimate, the files touched in the solitude of the kitchen.

Seeing their proximity, Hank understood immediately.

An absurd question sprang up in his mind: where could androids love each other?

—

Connor felt his biocomponents twisting when North's nails traced a way toward his pelvis. Their senses, filled with affection and exhausted with joy, were so sensitive. He grabbed the wandering hand and brought it to his mouth to kiss it, feeling North's head snuggle against his neck. One way like any other to ignore the increasingly bright hue of the sky.

North would not yield to any whim, but well, if the RK800's plan failed, she would not be unhappy.

Between hugs, Connor had told her about a plan: Lieutenant Anderson should be aware so he could release Salomé Williams, for this woman would not pay for a crime she did not commit, and then, Connor would denounce, too late of course, North's escape. A team would patrol, looking for the fugitive, and while the real WR400 would be in one of the cars, blending into the mass, Connor would find pieces of another WR400 near the train to conclude an accident and close the case.

"They'll have to believe me: the codes won't be the same, but they won't be able to check it."

The pieces of the WR400 would be gathered at the Eden Club: North knew there was premises where incomplete bodies were piled up, waiting to be repaired when others were dead. A multitude of WR400 shared her face, so there would be plenty of choice.

"And do you have a plan to flee to Canada too?"

"I can't leave," Connor murmured as he watched how the gray ceiling, an hour earlier, was starting to turn pale gold. Their night was coming to an end.

Soon, North would be in the train, moving away from him.

"Because of Hank?"

The reasons were numerous: the last and only prototype, deviant or not, could not vanish into thin air. He was still in testing and the partnership with the Detroit police was monitoring his progress, his failures, ready to perfect him according to the reports received.

Finally, Connor admitted that he did not want to give up Lieutenant Anderson, not now.

"I wish I had your chance, Connor, meeting a human who doesn't despise the androids."

"Yet the first meeting was pretty— difficult. Like you with humans, he didn't have a good opinion of androids, but that changed."

"What is your role, RK800? Investigate or mediate?" North joked, straightening up to look at him better. Under natural light, Connor's irises had the color of the earth, with the same reassuring warmth.

He was admiring her too. It was too bad that humans had only been able to perceive her lascivious function. The tip of his index finger rested on the dark lips that imitated the color of bites. This mouth would no longer have to settle on what was repugnant to it.

"Come on. It's time to be free."

North nodded before grabbing her shirt. While she was buttoning it, Connor called the lieutenant, hoping to avoid his answerphone.

The android's serial number had appeared on Hank's cell phone screen, so when he picked up, he asked right away:

"Connor? Where are you?"

"I'm with North, lieutenant." The RK800 was surprised by the laugh he heard. North wrapped her arm around Connor's shoulders, turning off her skin for access to the call as well. She could also participate, but preferred to remain silent for the moment. "Lieutenant, did you arrest Salome Williams?"

"So now you want to know! Nothing could be done yesterday, so she was taken to a sobering cell. She may speak today. You will be there?"

"You have to release her, lieutenant."

"What?!"

Connor dreaded his partner's reaction, but he also placed great trust in Hank. The android was going to make the decisions from now on. He took North's hand, which rested on his chest, squeezed it.

"Lieutenant, Salome Williams didn't kill her husband. North strangled Mark Williams."

"What? But you told me— North had shown you—"

"North manipulated me."

Hank was by chance on his couch, already seated to cash this news.

He was thinking about the WR400. Maybe he had to blame the migraine caused by the whiskey, but he was convinced that he had seen the life that was emerging from the android last night. The words she had used could not have been dictated by a program: it was a robot that served in a brothel, not a nurse in a psychiatric hospital that hunted the cravings for suicide.

"Why?"

Connor glanced at North, inviting her to speak.

"Hank." The man jumped, he did not know it was a conversation between three. He rested his elbows on his knees, listened attentively. As she had explained to Connor, North told the lieutenant her daily at the Eden Club. The irony made the WR400 a succubus both venerated and rejected: her curves invoked fantasies when her mechanical nature called for contempt. Her loins had never been caressed by a friendly hand, her lips had never been loved— until this night, at least. "I couldn't stand it anymore. And I didn't have a solution."

The lieutenant was thinking. He could not contradict North, but ethics prevented him from approving.

"I killed Mark Williams, Hank, but as I already told Connor: I didn't feel any joy at that time, I was—"

"Desperate?"

"Yes."

If he could not tolerate any crime, Hank could not help but feel some sympathy for North. He did not forget it: she was a machine, so it meant she was different from a human being who had the right to complain, to be safe, to be helped.

"Connor. What are we doing?"

Since the RK800 placed great confidence in his teammate, he explained his idea to allow North to flee. The deviant was afraid that the lieutenant would get angry, that he would tell his colleague to forget this plan— when she heard him sigh:

"I don't think Floyd Mills could defend an android anyway, so maybe it's the best—"

"Thanks, Hank. Thank you for understanding me."

—

The sun had emerged on the horizon, chasing androids as God had chased Adam and Eve out of the perfect garden.

North's LED had turned red when Connor had managed to unblock the door at the back of the Eden Club. The mere sight of these walls made her uncomfortable. Just before, she had shared him the establishment's plan, already integrated into her system, making the RK800 familiar with the places too.

Connor slipped down the hall, followed by his partner. Behind the walls of white plaster, they could hear cries and hiccups of pleasure. It was just crumbs of night, the empty period of the establishment, yet the confused echoes that came from several rooms created a real malaise. In sympathy, Connor grabbed North's hand and pressed it for a moment, giving her courage.

They parted in the reserve, Connor heading to the WR400's members, looking in the shelves, as for North, she began to search in a closet with several clothes hanging.

She quickly found a woolen headband that could fit on the temples: the perfect accessory for a deviant during the winter. North rearranged her hair, then the cloth. Connor confirmed that her LED was well hidden. For his part, Connor had found what he needed. Lust had woven its delicate black lace over the body parts, clinging to the skin that had become motionless, trapping them in this embrace. Connor also took a leg where there was only a garter to remove, then an arm covered with stars, nails to the shoulder, some clothes— all to place in a large bag found behind two boxes. He had also found a head of a WR400 with the same face as his partner. This model was out of order: one of the jaw clips was unhooked, twisting the lips and shifting them into a grimace.

"Is it a customer who did that?"

"Certainly, yes."

With a gesture of compassion, North put her palm against the cheek of this inert twin. They shared the same mouth, yet the frozen lips seemed duller, colder.

The deviant hunter had no doubt: he was going against his mission, his function, but if he spared North that end, then her flight was justified.

Several miles away, Hank Anderson unlocked the cell where Salome Williams had time to emerge from the fumes of Red Ice. Despite her state of mind, the young woman had realized that she had been suspected of having caused her husband's death and, between the haze that haunted her skull, felt a great anger.

The lieutenant apologized and informed her that new information in the investigation had cleared her. If he could tell her more? No, he could not make that compensation.

"Asshole—" cursed the so-young widow, but the policeman had other tasks waiting for him. Connor's plan seemed safe, organized and if he had hesitated a few minutes in his living room, Hank had quickly convinced himself to help the two androids.

The RK800 was just a machine. It was at least his first impression. And then Connor had managed to convince him through his sincere questions, his less rigid attitude than the old models— CyberLife had taken a step since the old white and smooth models of the 2020s. In the manner of humans who had gone from primate to man, had androids evolved from floppy to sensitive machines? The world needed a new Darwin—

While waiting for theories to emerge among academics, if Hank lived long enough to witness such an evolution, the lieutenant made the decision to rescue his partner: the idea that the CyberLife's hound succumbed to a deviant's charm was— fun. Connor put North's life ahead of his mission, and that decision, as dangerous as it was, warmed Hank's heart.

Of course, the lieutenant felt a certain amount of anguish scratching in his bowels when he explained to Captain Fowler that the RK800 had been chasing the deviant WR400 since last night and that he had managed to understand that she was going to flee the country, but his superior believed him anyway.

It was just an android from a brothel, the team would be summarized to three men under the command of the lieutenant. Floyd Mills was likely to have more trouble with technological negligence, robots being valuable assets that involved some responsibility.

When the police cars were on the way to the station, Hank prayed that Connor and North had already said goodbye.

—

Suitcases were sorted by androids, allowing travelers to be free of weight until their train leaves. At this time, it was mostly people working in nearby cities, so there was a majority of bags and folders among the larger bags. The sun pierced the glass roof, illuminating the station with its multiplied rays.

The bag that Connor had found in the Eden Club's room remained on his shoulder, while he was walking alongside North, whose outfit had been completed with a bright red coat, respecting the establishment of Mills' fashion, but it made her an authentic human who seeks to protect herself from the cold. With his obvious uniform and his LED, Connor, by her side, passed for an assistant, a servant.

The train that Connor had located was, by chance, at an isolated platform, pushed back to one end of the station. At the time of departure, the pieces of the deceased WR400 should be dispersed in such a way that the police believe an accident. They walked along the platform that seemed to spread out on the horizon, but the two machines correctly calculated distances, insensitive to dreams and hopes. Their duo were reflected on the windows of the cars, and through, they guessed the silhouettes that settled, preparing for the trip.

But they were preparing for separation.

When they reached the tip of the train, North stopped and crossed her arms in a hostile posture, covering Connor as he descended on the rails. Under the bowels of the machine, he placed evidences so that they would be hit by the powerful train when he starts.

In the middle of the maneuver, Hank warned him that the patrol was seven minutes from the station. Connor climbed back onto the platform and, submitting to an impulsive gesture dictated by new programs, took North in his arms.

"There is not much time left."

There was no witness: no one saw the deviant place her lips on the hunter's forehead.

"What if you tracked me to the end of the world? A RK800 always accomplishes his missions, right?"

The android managed to smile and he assured her that he was no longer a RK800: he was Connor and he would do anything to join her one day. Human proverbs classify love as a confused, illogical and wasteful feeling, so perhaps androids' deviance was all also about love? Addressed to the whole world, addressed to life or addressed to a WR400 as proud as Valkyrie.

The loudspeakers announced the departure of the train for in two minutes. North stepped on the last step and leaned over to kiss Connor one last time. On the lips, connections burned to seal their bond, marking the circuits.

And when the doors began to slide to separate them, North agreed to back off. Under the woolen headband, her LED was red with sadness. She saw Connor's in a similar shade. They were as painful as sobs stuck in the throat.

On the rails, the train began to glide with ease, but its down-to-earth flight met the obstacle of the RK800. The WR400's throat was crushed, then the head followed the wheel, tumbling down the track, hitting a lighter arm that fell off the tracks, tumbling down the street below.

Their time was up, yet Connor cheated: he began to walk to the rhythm of the train, his hand against the bay where North had put her hand as well. A window had once protected her from the hunter of deviants, this one punctuated their separation.

The train turned, encouraging Connor to run, which it forced a smile out of North. But the platform did not extend further and it was North's turn to move: from the first car, she began to survey the central corridor of the train, the windows allowing her to see her accomplice.

When she reached the bottom car, North realized it was over. The smile she saw hurt her mechanical heart.

—

When Hank Anderson arrived at the station, he ordered his men to run on different tracks: Connor had told him the train that would serve the flight and he hoped to be alone with his teammate.

He saw the RK800 at the edge of the platform. The train was just a point on the horizon, confirming that the plan had worked. As Hank knew, he was not afraid when he saw the dented head that had rolled on the track, the traces of thirium on the concrete.

Connor was trying to stare at the remains of the WR400: staring at the train would have been illogical, it would have betrayed his plan.

The lieutenant allowed himself to rest his hand on the shoulder safely, after all, the gesture could serve as a comfort to an android who faces the failure for the first time. The back of the RK800 was straight, as solid as before, but the absence of reaction was to lock up any emotion. A way like any other to preserve a too great sadness still unknown.

It was hard to endure.

"She managed to leave, Lieutenant."

"You could've leave too, Connor. I would've invented some stories for Fowler, I would've said you were on the trail and—"

"And CyberLife would've reminded me and North's identity in Canada would've been guessed."

Hank felt great pain for his partner: the deviant hunter had begun to feel emotions, the noblest of them, to finally muzzle them. The lieutenant was thinking of these two chairs always side by side in his kitchen. He had not dared to separate them, out of superstition to break a spell.

"Shit."

"Shit," Connor confirmed with less vehemence. Unlike Hank, he still saw the train and, despite the still burning contact on his mouth, he had the impression that some biocomponents were ripped off, that parts were missing in his body.

The android was still static and he would have stayed there for years if Hank had not joined him. Could the human have the right to take him in his arms while the robot was able to stand up? How does one comfort a machine that has just discovered sadness?

—

At the bottom of the cat, still in front of this window where only the cityscape was passing, North repressed a great anger. Bikes were hanging right next to him, and her fists wanted to smash against the steel ridges to exorcise her feelings.

But turning away from these potential victims, she came face to face with a man who looked at her with eyes wide with surprise. He had seen everything.

Although he was taller than she, his slender stature made him look vulnerable. A white bandage covered his black temple, clearly visible, and North hoped that this harm to the head, as harmless as it was, had caused some damage to the brain. Perhaps this witness was coming out of an operation that made him confused?

Could an extra punch cause fainting and erase his memories?

"Please, wait!" The man asked as he saw the young woman's hand close in a fist. He presented his own palms and, in the hollow, the dark skin eventually melted to show a plastic flesh.

This passenger seemed so anxious.

"Are you also a—?"

"Yes, I am."

They did not need to name their nature. North then understood the reason for the bandage placed on the right temple. An idea that neither she nor Connor had imagined.

The other android was wearing a long coat over a sweatshirt and jeans, basic and discreet, so convincing that the WR400 had been fooled.

"Are you also fleeing for Canada?" Murmured the fellow one. Loneliness had weighed too long on his mechanical carcass, but he did not know if he could trust this stranger: he had met unstable, angry, even hateful deviants. His character so young had shaped a desire for peace, tolerance, so he fled both violent humans and robots.

North just nodded.

"My name's Josh, I was a PJ500 at the University of—"

"You're just Josh. Everything we were before doesn't count," North assured, introducing herself, omitting her function. Past only rhymed with wounds she wanted to forget.

"This android— It was an RK800, right? The deviant hunter?"

Oh, so that was the reason for his fear.

North smiled, something sweet, really surprising, while Josh had thought she had escaped the bogeyman.

"His name's Connor and he helped me get away— Actually, no: he just helped me."

He helped to appease this hatred against humans, to be free from anger, the only emotion she knew, to discover a piece of paradise in Detroit, to be reborn— If the tears meant something to androids, North would have started to cry.

She settled on one of the seats that faced the hung bicycles. The skyline was no longer riddled with the Detroit towers, and this clean vision seemed surreal.

Josh sat by her side and, without guessing the relationship between the WR400 and the CyberLife's hound, decided to postpone his questions.

All of a sudden, North looked at him and asked:

"Do you know Metallica?"

"No, I don't. Well, I can search my database, but—"

"No need: we don't care about members or concert dates," North replied, taking his hand. A connection was established between their palm. "I already miss Connor and this music is the only thing that comforts me."

Josh was surprised by the raging instruments that beat at the same pace of a heart ready to explode. The singer's voice had sometimes the sweetness of sticky honey, sometimes the fury of an exhausted beast. The lyrics were no more reassuring, evoking either a desire to destroy or a will to burn.

The PJ500 finally took his hand away.

"I'm not sure I like it— the lyrics are quite violent."

"Oh, sorry, I didn't know you were so delicate."

Josh tried to protest, but North laughed: she still identified with that music, but her rage had been appeased. It was said without contempt.

"I've other softer tracks," North assured, "it's a good person who made me discover them."

"Human person?"

"And certainly the best."

—

The mission was over.

There were so many deviants, so many worries that no one was sorry for the body in pieces. The trunk was missing, but frankly, androids made to clean the station would take care of it, especially since the RK800 had confirmed that it was the deviant on the run. Frightened, she had run before stumbling and being rolled over by the train.

The lieutenant's men had already gone back to the police station.

The engine of the old car was still sleeping. Hank did not dare to start until Connor kept that pensive silence, so they were still parked in the lot.

"Why don't you take a train, Connor? Go ahead!"

"The team thinks North is dead, Lieutenant, what are you going to invent to justify my departure?"

Powerless, Hank shrugged.

People were too self-centered to worry about their own children or their own parents, why bother a machine? Connor's disappearance would be such a subject for a few weeks, and then he would be forgotten to finally be at peace—

"I don't want to leave you alone, Lieutenant."

"What?"

"Several reasons still keep me in Detroit: my missions, my test period— and you too. I can't leave you this way."

"Fuck, Connor, how old I am? Seven?!"

"You're fifty-three years old, although you seem to have more than sixty with your puffy eyes, today."

Hank gave him the finger, despite the smiles.

"I know you're old enough to be self-sufficient, Lieutenant, but even if taking care of a particular human being isn't my job, I think— you'll need someone as big as you."

"Are you kidding? Have you checked Sumo's height?"

It was said as a joke. Hank turned his face to his window so Connor could not see his touched look.

The android stood up briskly:

"Lieutenant, do you have some Black Label Society on your post?"

"Of course, who do you think I am?"

"Put the album _Mafia_ , the cover of Lynyrd Skynyrd's song."

" _I never dreamed_?"

"Yes."

Without understanding, Hank complied.

When the song started, when he heard the words, Connor began to smile as he guessed the theme: the instruments were more languorous, even more melancholy than the lieutenant usually put. There was a touch of irony in Zakk Wylde's blinding love, the separation that followed—

"That's what North's listening right now."

"What? Are you communicating right now?"

"Yes, we are."

"But how can you?"

"We don't need cellphones like humans, Lieutenant. She listens to your music on the train," this detail touched the lieutenant. "And _I never dreamed_ had just begun."

Hank restrained himself from laughing: there was at least that touch that softened their separation.

"I love her, Lieutenant."

"I know, Connor." He allowed himself a small smirk and put his hand on his shoulder. "And I know that one day you'll be able to join her. If I have to stop drinking for that, then OK!"

"Thank you, Lieutenant."

The lieutenant was silent then to enjoy the piece too.

There was something truly beautiful about two androids who love each other.

—

 **I have a soft spot for pairings with high contrast, and North and Connor have a great alchemy and I had a great pleasure writing this romance that will maybe last for many years~**

 **I wasn't always satisfied with the plot sometimes difficult and I took too much time, still, your comments always give me motivation.**

 **Many thanks for your patience!**

 **Favs and kudos are nice, but comments are the true reward and really give the will to write more and more.**

 **So a huge thank to :**

 **On FanFiction,** **Error-Ra9, Guest, Miss Mary Rose, Gueezmo and Guest (another one).**

 **On Archive of our Own, Kizuka_Nakahara and Anon.**

 **This ship needs more love!**


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